Work Text:

When Tony walks into The Silver Star, he’s expecting to get the perfect “fuck you” tattoo to his dad and the whole damn family legacy. What he’s not expecting is to meet Steve Rogers, ninety pounds of sass, metal and ink. What he’s really not expecting is the nearly instantaneous twist of heat in his belly when he catches Steve’s collarbone tattoo, a looping line of script that teasingly disappears beneath his shirt.

As he fills out the paperwork, he tries desperately not to think about where the lines of that swooping “Do” curl.

“So have you thought about a design?”

Tony blinks out of thoughts of his tongue on Steve’s chest and flaps his mouth a few times. “Uh, yeah. Yes. Yeah, I’ve…” He digs into his pocket and pulls out of the crumpled scrap of paper, smoothing it before Steve. “Do you think you could do something with this?”

Steve gazes quizzically down at the paper. “This…” he says slowly, pointing at the diagram, “This is some kinda…circuit? But this,” he points to the code, “what am I looking at?”

“It’s my masterstroke,” Tony says, staring down at the last string of ones and zeroes. “Maybe the most important program I’ll ever design.”

At this, Steve raises an eyebrow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look pretty young. Don’t you think you’ll accomplish more as you, you know, get older?”

“Nothing as important as this,” Tony says, staring down at his salvation, brows drawn.

Steve seems to see something, because after a minute, he nods. “I can work with this. Give me an hour to design and then come back and I’ll have something for you. Anything you know you absolutely don’t want?”

“Nah,” Tony says with a wave. The tattoo behind Steve’s ear has just caught his eye and he’s trying not to lean too obviously to see the full design. “I’ll trust you with it.” Steve grins, one corner of his mouth hitching higher than the other, and Tony has to fight the sudden flood of heat to his face. “See you in an hour.”

He makes his escape and nearly jogs down the block so he doesn’t turn back and do something stupid. “Fuck,” he whispers, and then heads for the nearest coffee shop. He deserve coffee after that hot piece of Yes-please! An hour and fifteen minutes later, he gets a text on his phone from an unknown number.

This is Steve from the Silver Star. I have your design ready.

Trying not to think too much about Steve’s perfect collarbones or the elegant curve of his neck or the winking silver eyebrow stud, Tony makes his way back to the shop. Steve’s waiting for him with a grin and a rolled up piece of paper. “I think you’ll like it,” he says, and carefully unrolls his design.

The circuit, his bot’s circuit, starts off as a completely accurate diagram, but midway through, the lines start fading and jumbling, twisting into the lines of code. By the right-hand side of the paper, the circuit has completely deconstructed into a field of code, fading gradually. When Tony pulls back a little to look at the big picture, he sees that the design is circular, spokes emanating from a thick hub of code and circuit. “This is perfect,” he breathes, reaching out and touching the paper.

“I figured you were more of a monochrome guy, but we can do color, if you’d like.”

“No. No just…just like this.”

“Great. I’ll get it onto the transfer paper and then we’ll get started. How big and where were you thinking?”

Tony nearly spits out something inappropriate, but instead manages to choke: “My arm? I was thinking. Unless you have a better idea.”

Steve looks Tony up and down for a moment, and in his pants, Tony’s traitor cock stirs. He begins reciting pi to himself in hopes of preventing major embarrassment. “I don’t know,” Steve says slowly. “This would really look better bigger, and I think it would flatter your back. Right between the shoulder blades. What do you think?”

Tony nearly swallows his tongue, but he manages to get ahold of himself. “Sounds great,” he says, and is briefly proud of how normal his voice sounds. Steve grins and picks up the design.

“Great. My workspace is right through that door. Head in, take your shirt off, and make yourself comfortable. I’d prefer you sitting to lying down, if that’s ok with you, but whatever is the most comfortable for you. I’ll be in in a moment.”

Tony gulps and heads through the door, taking in the room. It’s not exactly what he expected. There are a few paintings and pencil sketches on the walls, and big frosted glass windows. Sunlight pours in, and makes the room warm and inviting—more like a den than a tattoo parlor, really. In the windows, several potted succulents reach for the light, and a desk sits in soft untidiness, a few sketches and several bottles of medical supplies and inks. In the middle is the chair Tony will be sitting in, warm brown leather. After a moment of study, Tony yanks his shirt over his head and settles onto the chair, flinching at the chill of the leather. He looks up and finds himself face to face with a huge, ornately framed mirror. The beveled edges catch the sunlight from the windows and make the room even brighter.

A moment later, Steve steps in, closing the honey wood door behind him. He gives Tony a winning smile and holds up the transfer. “Ok. I’m just going to place this on your back and then have you see what it’ll look like. Make sure you like the placement.”

Steve swabs down Tony’s back and studies it with a critical eye; in the mirror, Tony can see his every move. “You’re back’s pretty smooth. I won’t have to shave it, so that’s good. Just gonna place it now.”

His hands are soft and cool as he wets down Tony’s skin and presses down the transfer, and Tony has to call upon pi again, and then after that e, and then tau for fun. Steve hasn’t even fucking started and Tony is already hot and bothered. After a few minutes, he peels off the transfer and says, “Ok, take a look.” He hands Tony an elegant, wooden hand mirror and has him check the design. It looks better than Tony had even imagined. Unthinking, he makes a sharp gasp, lips curling with pleasure.

“Perfect.”

Steve grins, that same crooked grin and holy crap he looks like a silver screen star from the forties, with his flopping undercut and his sharp features. “Great. Let’s get started.”

Very deliberately, Steve cleans all his equipment, pulls on his gloves, and then grabs his tattoo needle. He perches on a wheelie stool and settles down. “Now, this’ll probably take about two hours, but we can take a break any time you need. These long sessions can get exhausting. If you need, we can also break this into multiple sessions. I just want to make sure you're comfortable through the whole thing.”

“Ready when you are,” Tony says, and tries not to think about how beautiful Steve looks in the sunlight of his workroom, the green plants framing his narrow shoulders and elegant neck. The needle starts up, a constant low throb, and the mechanical whirring of it sets Tony at ease—he knows machines. He knows them well.

Steve sets the needle to skin and starts. Of course it hurts. Tony had expected that. What he doesn’t expect is how the taught pain of it slowly twists to a strange pleasure. Oh shit, he thinks, and resists the urge to fidget. He must not quite succeed, because Steve lifts the needle away.

“You ok?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

“I need you to stay as still as you can or this won’t end well for either of us.”

Tony nods and sets his hips, tries not to fidget. This is going to be a fucking long two hours. For about five minutes, he manages to hold completely still, but then Steve hits a different nerve and it zings to his groin; Steve might as well have just touched his cock. Tony jumps a little under the needle and Steve clicks his tongue.

“I said don’t move,” and it’s a perfectly normal sentence, but the way he says it. It sends a frisson of electricity down Tony’s spine, and something in his brain shifts and and buzzes pleasantly. Tony’s discovering all sorts of new kinks today.

Steve’s order keeps Tony still—he won’t fidget again until Steve says he can move, but it doesn’t stop his damn cock from reacting as the pain continues to tingle across his back, jittering its way into pleasure. It’s like being stripped, like having a part of himself revealed more intimately than sex has ever done for him. With gauze, Steve wipes some of the blood away, and the contrast of the soft cloth and the sharp prickling of the needle makes Tony want to groan with the pleasure of it, but he bites his tongue. Bad enough that his cock is ridging hard against the taught fabric of his jeans.

In the mirror, Tony can see the look of concentration on Steve’s face, the way his lips purse a little as he studies Tony’s back. His thick lashes are low and stark against his pale skin, and his eyebrow piercing is winking in the sunlight. He’s beautiful, completely enraptured in his work, and his hand is gentle when it wipes away the blood. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs, and Tony follows the movement in the mirror, mesmerized.

The pain fades to a blank wash on his back, a feedback loop that only intensifies his erection as Steve moves from left to right. Sometimes, Tony can feel his warm breath puffing across the blazing hot skin, and the muscles of his pelvis clench. His cock presses harder against his jeans, but it’s a distant kind of pleasure-pain. He’s floating now, growing warmer and warmer the longer Steve continues.

At some point, Steve seems to notice. “You’re looking awfully red, Tony,” he says, his eyes peeking over Tony’s shoulder, blue through those fucking beautiful eyelashes. “You need a break?”

Tony is liquid, is heat, is fire, is the solid ball of want in his groin, the twist-tight of his balls and the swell of his cock. He can barely claw up enough to respond with a hum, and rather than bring the needle back, Steve leans around, concerned.

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, but then he seems to see. His eyes slide to Tony’s drooping eyelids and his flushed cheeks, his fluttering chest and the fine sheen of sweat on his temples. His crotch is blessedly hidden by the chair, but it’s probably not hard for Steve to guess what’s going on. He makes a little huff of air, a tiny sound of recognition, and then nods. Swinging back on his stool, Steve takes up his needle gun again. “It happens sometimes,” he says matter-of-factly. He looks up, voice carefully neutral but eyes sharp and observant. “No judgment here. Just keep. Still.” And it’s that voice again, just for a moment, and Tony sucks in a shuddering breath, a shiver passing down his spine.

The needle presses into his skin again, and somehow the pleasure-pain of it is worse, but also better, maybe because now Steve knows what the needle is doing to Tony. How long they’ve been going, Tony doesn’t know, but Steve’s nearly to his right shoulder blade now. It can’t be much longer.

The needle gun shifts and it hits a new bundle of electric nerves and just like that, Tony comes in his pants. He doesn’t move, doesn’t jerk, barely shudders at all, but his sharp gasp of breath still has Steve pausing. In the quiet of the office, Tony’s fluttering breath seems loud, and his shoulders gradually go limp.

Steve hums then, his eyes hot and blue, and then sets back to work. Tony floats in post-orgasmic bliss, still suspended in the cloud of heat and prickly pain on his back as Steve finishes the last details of the tattoo. His jeans and underwear are a mess, but he can’t bring himself to care when the endorphins are still flushing through his blood, the pleasant hum of good mechanics in his ears. With a final puff of warm breath on the tender skin of Tony’s back, Steve pulls away and sets his tattoo needle to the side. Gently, he cleans away the blood, his eyes still heavy-lidded, his own cheeks flushed.

“You want to see it before I bandage it up?” he asks, gesturing to the mirror. Tony nods slowly, and then rises on wobbly legs. He turns and Steve is there, offering the hand mirror. In a distant part of his mind, Tony is cataloging different pieces of Steve: the sweat on his his upper lip, his own rapid breath, the pink roses blossoming on his cheeks, the definite bulge in his skinny jeans.

But more immediately, he wants to see. He takes the hand mirror and turns, gazing at his own back. The skin is red and angry, but the black of the tattoo is strong and sharp against his back. Steve’ design looks even more beautiful than Tony had imagined, the sharp order of circuitry giving way to rioting code, but Tony can still see reason in it, can see the program that will become his greatest creation.

He shudders at the beauty of it, revels in the solid ache of his skin, and then meets Steve’s eyes.

“Do you like it?” Steve asks, stepping closer. Tony draws a sharp breath and then slowly drops to his knees.

“I love it. Can I show you how much I love it?”

Steve shudders and yearns toward Tony for a moment. “I don’t have any condoms,” he manages to say, voice suddenly much less controlled than it was while he was tattooing Tony.

Tony hums and then leans forward, cupping Steve’s erection through his skinny jeans. “Well then. Guess we’ll just have to call a raincheck on that.”

Head tilted back, long line of his throat sharp in Tony’s vision, Steve groans. “You don’t have to. You really don’t. I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

“Oh, I know I don’t have to. I want to.” Tony presses hard, working the heel of his hand into Steve’s groin. His free hand goes around back to knead at Steve’s ass, and it stretches the skin of Tony's back, sending another jolt of pleasure-pain zinging down his spine. Tony moans appreciatively and lurches forward, pressing his lips to Steve’s erection through his jeans.

Steve buries his hands in Tony’s hair, tugging lightly, and says, “God, Tony. That’s…fuck. Harder.” His hips jerk into Tony’s grip, grinding into Tony’s palm, and he whimpers a little. Tony smiles against his jeans and twists until he can press his fingers a little further back, just the barest hint of pressure against Steve’s perineum. At the same time. With his other hand, he pulls at Steve’s ass a little, relishing the warm, firm muscle.

For a few minutes, Steve grinds mindlessly into Tony’s hands, and then, with a twist and a hum from Tony, he comes, fingers tight in Tony’s hair as he moans. For a moment, they both pause, flushed and panting, and then Steve huffs out a weak laugh.

“That was not how I was expecting today to go,” he says, easing back a little. Tony laughs too, groaning a little as his back pulls. “Oh shit,” Steve says, and hops to action. “I didn’t bandage you up yet. I’m so sorry. Let me just…” He flutters around his office, gathering gauze and medical tape and then gestures for Tony to sit on the stool while he covers over the tattoo.

“Uh, you have to, uh, let me just, fuck I’m sorry, I…”

Tony laughs and grabs Steve’s hand, squeezing. “You want to tell me how to take care of it over dinner?”

Steve smiles sheepishly and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, but it might have to be dinner at my place upstairs. We’re both kind of a mess.”

Tony has grown uncomfortably aware of the cooled come in his underwear, and he nods readily enough. “That would be great, actually. Dinner would be great.